Little Boys Cant Fly
by rudeandpossiblyginger
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes! What are you doing? Get down from there!" The curious, curly haired, little boy whipped around from his place on the top of the fancy maple banister next to the stairs. His mother had surprised him just when he was about to jump off, making him lose his balance on the small bar of wood and fall backwards.


"Sherlock Holmes! What are you doing? Get down from there!"

The curious, curly haired, little boy whipped around from his place on the top of the fancy maple banister next to the stairs. His mother had surprised him just when he was about to jump off, making him lose his balance on the small bar of wood and fall backwards.

Mummy Holmes shrieked and grasped for her child, trying to keep him from falling. Sherlock cried out in fear, grabbing at air, trying to stop himself, and Mycroft yelped in surprise when his younger brother fell right into his arms. Mycroft was just running up the stairs to grab the very interesting novel he had been reading, and instead, ended up with a little shocked boy in his arms,

Once Mrs. Holmes got over her surprise, which didn't take long-you got use to these sort of things when living with Sherlock, or any little children in general, she ran straight for her boys.

"What do you think you were doing?! You could have hurt yourself! How did you even get up there? Why were you up there?" She was examining Sherlock, who was still lying in his seventeen-year-old brothers arms, making sure he was alright.

Sherlock looked up meekly. He didn't want to be questioned. He was just doing an experiment. "I was trying to fly." he mumbled.

"And what put the idea that you could fly in your head?"

"Well, birds can fly, and so I might as well see if I could too."

"Silly," Mycroft tickled Sherlock's stomach, causing him to giggle and squirm in delight. "little boys can't fly."

Sherlock giggles died down. "But I just wanted to _see_ if I could." said the six year old solemnly.

"Well, I don't want you to do this again. Don't ever get on that banister again. It's not safe Sherlock." Mummy Holmes scolded.

"But it's for _science _mum!"

"I don't care. I don't want my little boy getting hurt!"

"Alright." Sherlock huffed. He slid out of his older brother's arms, dropped to the ground and scampered off, his dark curls bouncing behind him.

Despite what his mother and brother said, the young Holmes continued to try to fly. He didn't try to jump off the banister though. Falling off had scared him, and he decided to jump things a bit lower than the banister, just in case mummy and Mycroft were right. So, instead, he tried jumping off his bed, the last three stairs, off the swings, and other lower things. He would flap his arms madly, half out of reflex and a half out of hope that it would help him take off. He would study birds, and try to copy what they did when they took flight. He even tried to create his own pair of wings for himself, but he ran out of cardboard, and he used too much glue, so they fell apart. Despite all his efforts he still ended up crashing to the ground every time he tried to take to the sky, giving him many little cuts and bruises. Every time he gained a wound, he would run to Mycroft or Mummy, and every time they would clean up the cuts and kiss the bruises, and tell him what was becoming a very familiar phrase, "Little boys can't fly."

One day Sherlock earned himself a particularly nasty scrape on his right hand after jumping off one of the rocks in the front yard. It wasn't deep, and it would heal easily, leaving no scar, but it did sting, and had some rocks and even a thorn or two stuck in the skin of his hand. As fat tears, that he tried to restrain, rolled down his cheeks, Sherlock ran to Mycroft.

The loving older brother cleaned up and bandaged the poor hand, and dried the younger siblings tears. He pulled him in for a hug. "Why do you keep trying?" He asked." You just keep hurting yourself."

Sherlock sniffed. "I don't know. Even my brain is telling me that little boys can't fly, but I keep trying anyway. The hopeful part of my brain keeps telling me that if I flapped my arms hard enough, I would really take off. But I guess that part is wrong."

Sherlock let out a little sigh, and then, comforted enough and ready to go on his next adventure, wiggled out of his brothers grasp. Mycroft watched his little brother run off, and began to worry about him.

_Several Years Later_

Sherlock looked down at the ground below him. He heard John scream out his name. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he threw his phone to the side and closed his eyes. Spreading his arms out wide, he let himself fall forward, and for the first time in a long time, he willed himself to fly. For gravity to bless him, for the winds to pick him up. His arms waved madly, and the ground rushed closer, and closer, and closer...

And that was the final lesson for him.

Little boys can't fly.


End file.
